Chapter 13

Leitis was awakened by the sound of thunder. No, not thunder, she realized groggily, but wagons.

She stood, pulled her dress over her shift, found her hair ribbon, and donned her shoes.

A watery sun lit the clan hall; the archway was shadowed in the faint light. She passed through the shadows into the brighter courtyard, stood staring at the sight before her.

Three rumbling wagons piled high with foodstuffs led the way over the land bridge. Chickens squawked in their cages, boxes and crates and barrels were piled high and tied with rope to secure them.

A column of soldiers followed, crossing to the glen. Leading them was the colonel, his red coat too much color against the blue of a sky barely past dawn. Another patrol, one more excuse to enforce the English presence on the hapless Scots. Or had he lied and was seeking Hamish again?

He turned his head and stared directly at her as if he'd heard her thoughts. They were too far apart to see each other in detail. But she suspected that on his face was the same studied expression of stillness she'd seen before and in his eyes a watchfulness that no doubt mirrored her own.

What sort of man saves a village and promises death to an old man? Who was he, that he had forced himself upon her yet remembered the loss of her loom? A man of mystery, one who incited both her confusion and curiosity.

A cool morning breeze flattened her skirts against her legs. Grouse, rousted from their nests, flew into the air. An officer called cadence; a horse whinnied in protest at a command from his rider.

But Leitis remained there trapped by his gaze and her own bewilderment. He looked away, giving his horse his head. Horse and rider flew over the land bridge as if they had wings, at one point jumping over the burn that fed into Loch Euliss instead of taking the longer and safer way around.

The MacRaes were the finest riders in Scotland. One of the legends they told was that the first laird had been transformed from a horse for love of a Scottish lass. The Butcher of Inverness could shame them all, she thought, and felt only regret that it should be so.

She turned to find Donald standing there, his face wiped of any expression at all. In his hands he held a tray holding her morning meal and a pitcher filled with water.

"Should I be grateful to be a prisoner?" she asked, annoyed by his reproachful silence. "And never have attempted escape?"

She whirled and walked back into the laird's chamber, Donald following.

"It's not much of a prison," Donald said, glancing around the room. "You've got something to eat other than rats, and you have a bed. You're not naked and cold."

He indicated the loom with a sharp gesture of his chin. "You've got occupations other than counting the days until they come and beat you again." He smiled, but the expression held no humor. "No, miss, it's not much of a prison."

"Did that happen to you?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "A Jacobite prison, miss. In Inverness."

She sat abruptly on the chair.

"Did you think it was only a Scots thing, to hate?" He smiled again, the corners of his mouth twisted. "We English have reason enough for it. You Scots are good at being jailers, miss. I've the scars on my back to prove it."

She had never considered the point before, never imagined that there would be English prisoners and Scottish prisons. Innocence or na?veté?

"How did you escape?" she asked hesitantly.

He glanced at her. "I didn't," he said. "The war ended and I was released to the colonel's service again."

"Is it true what they say about the Butcher? Did he kill all those men in Inverness?"

Donald studied her, his face oddly expressionless. But in his eyes was a flicker of irritation. As the moment lengthened, she realized that it might not have been the wisest thing to reveal her curiosity.

"People will think what they wish, miss, whether or not it's the truth," he said finally. But he didn't elaborate.

"I'm sorry," she said slowly. "Not for escaping, but for your imprisonment. For the cruelty with which you were treated."

"I don't fault you for it, miss. I've learned that one person cannot be blamed for the whole of a nation."

She felt warmth bathe her cheeks at his words. A chastisement subtly and effectively uttered.

He walked to the loom and stood staring down at it. "Can you figure this out?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

She came to stand beside him. "It's not that difficult," she said. "I'd show you if I had some wool." Her fingers stroked the wood of the warp pegs.

"What would you weave?" he asked.

"Something to remind me of better times," she said truthfully. "Something bright and cheerful."

He looked around at the room. "Maybe it's this place that makes you sad," he said conversationally. "Some of the men think the castle's haunted." He smiled suddenly. "It wouldn't surprise me if the ghosts here would be pleased at the idea of frightening the English."

"The English have done their share of inducing fear," she said quietly.

"There we go again," he said ruefully, "right back to where we were."

"I don't hate you for being English, Donald," she admitted.

"Nor I, you, for being Scot, miss," he said, grinning at her.

He left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

Was this a presage of things to come, she wondered, that the loathing she felt for the English was eased one person at a time?

She walked to the center of the room, wondering how to pass the time. She was unaccustomed to inactivity. There had always been chores to be done in her cottage, work that was magnified by the fact that there was only one set of hands to do it. When there was any free time, she occupied herself with her weaving.

But there was no cottage anymore. No home to return to. She pushed the sadness of that thought away as she looked around her.

Donald was no doubt a better aide than he was a chambermaid. Cobwebs still hung from the corners, and the walls looked as though they could do with a good washing. The paper had originally been gold and ivory but appeared mostly gray now.

Doubling over a length of toweling, she wrapped it around her waist to better protect her only dress and, pouring the last of the water into the basin, began to scrub the walls.

When Donald returned, she asked him for a bucket of hot water and soap. He only frowned in mild censure, but brought it and many more after that. By midafternoon, she'd scrubbed the floor, scraped out the fireplace, and had washed all but one of the walls.

The room looked almost as it had in the old laird's day. The pale gold pattern on the walls looked fresh; the soft red of the fireplace brick was cleaned of its soot. Even the oak floorboards beneath her feet, old and pocked and squeaking in a few places, gleamed almost proudly.

Looking at this one room, it was almost possible to believe that Gilmuir was intact after all.

"I don't think the colonel would like it if you wore yourself out, miss," Donald said, bringing her evening meal. She glanced over her shoulder, but continued scrubbing the last wall. It was true that she ached in places, but no more discomfort than sitting at a loom for most of the day.

"I cannot bear inactivity," she said, lowering the cloth. "I'll be doing your mending next."

He grinned at her. "I'd be taking you up on that, miss. I'm not a good hand with a needle. Still," he said, regarding her, "I don't think he'd want you working so hard."

"And above all," she said curtly, "we must keep the colonel pleased."

His glance was softly chiding.

She washed her hands, pushed back her hair, and sat at the table, truly hungry.

"What do you do when the colonel isn't around?" she asked, taking a plate from him.

He looked startled at her question. "I brush his uniforms, and polish his boots, tend to his horses." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "But normally," he said, "I'm always with him."

"Do you have no spare time, Donald? No sweetheart to write?"

His cheeks darkened with color as he shook his head. "There are barracks' occupations, miss, gambling and the like. The colonel has strict rules about it, though, and everyone is careful not to disobey. At least before they know whether or not he's bluster."

"I shouldn't think it would be an easy thing to obey a man like him," she said.

"You have him all wrong, miss," he said, then stopped himself.

She eyed him curiously, then concentrated on her meal.

"I've a notion on how to spend some time, miss, if you'd like to learn a game."

"I'm willing to play dice with the devil himself," she confessed, "if it means having something to do." And if it kept her from thinking about the Butcher.

He left the room, only to return a few minutes later with a deck of cards and a long, rectangular board. Laying them on the table, he explained the rules of the game. "We usually play for money, but I'm saving mine. We can find something else to wager, if you wish."

"A walk in the open air," she said without hesitation.

"I couldn't do that, miss."

"A walk in the open air with you guarding me," she amended. "If I do not leave this room, Donald, I shall scream."

He looked startled. "You're only jesting, aren't you, miss?"

"I'm not," she said firmly. "I'll wager you a walk in the glen. If I lose, I'll shine the Butcher's boots."

"I couldn't, miss," he said, looking stricken. "The fort is nearly empty, but if word gets back to the colonel, I could lose my position."

"Is being his aide so important to you?"

"I'd serve Colonel Landers in hell itself, miss. Begging your pardon," he said.

What kind of man incites such loyalty?She shook her head, determined to dismiss all thoughts of the Butcher of Inverness.

"Then to the clan hall. And the priory," she added quickly. "Only there, and no farther." Just a brush of fresh air across her face and some sight other than these four walls.

"If you promise not to attempt to escape," he said.

She nodded. Not as much a sacrifice as he would believe. She had no place to go.

"Then a shiny pair of boots against a short walk," Donald said, and smiled.

She smiled her agreement and they began to play.